Perferō
by generalsleepy
Summary: Captured by mercenaries, Moffitt reflects on his past and struggles to hold himself together until help arrives. If help arrives.


**AN:** Moffitt speaks Latin. I don't. This may be readily apparent. Sorry about any errors. I'd welcome corrections.

Moffitt occupied as much of his mind as possible in conjugating irregular Latin verbs.

_…possum, potes, potest, possumus, potestis, possunt…_

Latin had been one of the first languages he learned. He was about seven when his father started him on it. He'd sit on the floor of his father's study, pouring over books on grammar and vocabulary, and before bed, his father would quiz him, sometimes for so long that his mother had to intervene and insist he be allowed to sleep.

He would have appreciated sleep right then. He'd appreciate a bed, a glass of milk, someone to make the endless stream of questions stop.

A boot slammed into his stomach. He gasped and struggled to keep himself from retching. His bound, bleeding hands groped uselessly at the air. He barely even registered the voice speaking in gruff Arabic, thick with frustration.

"You tell us who the spy is and we might let you live."

Moffitt ignored the voice. He'd gone past the point of responding with even "I don't know."

_…volō, vīs, vult, volumus vultis, volunt…_

A hand gripped him by the hair and hauled him up to his knees. He used his one non-swollen eye to look up at the man holding him. A snarling mouth and furious dark eyes were barely visible through a thick tangle of black hair. Behind that man stood another one of Moffitt's captors, a younger man looking bored as he leaned against the wall, cleaning his fingernails with a knife.

"I'm getting tired of your crap, English," the bearded man - _Tanzir, Moffitt thought he'd one of the others call him; it hardly mattered, he supposed _- growled.

Moffitt remained silent. He could hear indistinct shouting and the sound of an engine backfiring coming from outside of the hut.

_…nōlō…_

"Son of a bitch." The man spat onto Moffitt's cheek.

_…nōlīs…_

He pulled harder on Moffitt's hair. Moffitt could feel the follicles separating from his scalp.

_…nōlīs… no… nōn vīs, nōn vīs, nōn… nōn…_

He threw Moffitt back to the ground like a ragdoll, then kicked him again in the ribs, while he was still struggling for breath.

It was useless trying to hide in the comforting rhythm of grammar, as he felt something crack, and the pain was such that all he could do was scream. He could feel the rib break. The image of the jagged bones digging into delicate flesh was difficult to keep at bay. He could hear his interrogators laughing.

_…nōn vult, nōn… damnit…_

He heard one of them, the younger man, he thought, talking. Blood pounded in his ears, and he had trouble making out what was said, his brain dulled with pain, a tangle of languages he couldn't parse.

"…Cover… don't want to see…disgusting…" he managed to pick up.

His eyes were already shut tight against the pain. He was almost grateful for the sheet of thick canvas thrown over him, because it blocked out the meager light.

Every breath in and out was accompanied by a sharp ache. He had to concentrate on breathing as shallowly as he could.

Breathe, breathe…

_…respiro, respirare, respiravi, respiratus…_

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he had been captured. He had already been behind schedule when he drove into the ambush. One moment he had been busy radioing headquarters with his location, the next he was splattered with blood. He looked over to see the top half of the driver's head blown off.

Rather than give the sniper another shot, he tried to take control of the Jeep himself. By then, though, the enemy, a group of Libyans with scarves tied over their faces, had emerged, aiming guns at him from every angle. One man rushed forward and smashed the butt of his rifle into Moffitt's head, and he woke up in this small, stone house.

_…dormiō, dormīs, dormit, dormītis, dormiunt…_

The men were mercenaries, Moffitt decided, based from their lack of identifiable uniform or any kind of military structure. They knew something about his mission, though. The question they kept coming back to was the identity of the Italian spy he had been collecting information from. Maybe it was the Italians paying them, he thought. Or they were freelancers who thought that they could make some money by selling the information they could squeeze out of him.

So far, Moffitt knew that he had succeeded in disappointing them.

_…mentiō, mentīs, mentit, mentīmus, mentītis, mentiunt…_

They'd beaten him, sometimes with their fists and feet, sometimes with lengths of rope or cable. They'd broken his toes and burned the soles of his feet with a cattle prod.

One man hadn't spoken a word as he carefully worked a heated needle under Moffitt's fingernails, prying and pushing, until finally the nail separated completely from the bed. All this time, the man Tanzir held him by the throat and bellowed in his ear, demanding that he give them the identity of the spy.

Moffitt shook his head and mentally recited Koranic passages in Arabic, English, and Swahili.

They tore off all of the fingernails on his left hand before losing interest, and turning to whipping his chest and stomach with a riding crop.

He thought about what he would say to Troy when he saw the Sergeant and the others._You certainly took your own sweet time; this is what I get for leaving home without a note; too bad you weren't there to shoot me this time._

_I waited for you. Oh, god, where are you?_

At one point, the man who had pulled out his nails, dragged Moffitt to his knees and held a pistol to his forehead.

"We're finished," he said softly and cocked the revolver.

Moffitt's stomach fear that seized him was huge and paralyzing. At the same time, there was a shameful feeling of relief. At least the pain was going to stop, at least they weren't going to be able to hurt him anymore.

He shut his eyes. He couldn't let himself die in this place, though. He had to find someplace better, someplace warm and safe.

He remembered the last Easter before he enlisted, when they'd all gone out to the country for a day. He pictured his little brother laughing as he clung to the old rope swing. He pictured Ronnie's bright, red face grinning up at him.

The trigger clicked. For a second, Moffitt's heart stopped. Slowly, he realized that the gun hadn't been loaded.

After that, he gave up on lying. He simply begged.

"Mercy, mercy," he repeated in every language and dialect he could call to mind.

_…rogō, rogās, rogat, rogāmus, rogātis, rogant…_

He gave up on that too, as soon as he could get a hold of himself. He was lying, broken and shivering, dying in a pool of his own blood, vomit, urine, and tears. That was no cause to give up on dignity.

As they rubbed salt into the bleeding sores on his back, he silently begged for Troy to come dashing in. He always did like the big, dramatic heroic gestures. This rescue would certainly apply.

_At least, if I don't make it, make up something to tell my father. Say I was shot making a bold escape attempt; he'd like that._

He thought about his mother, learning that the last of her sons was gone. It would destroy her. She would probably blame herself, for letting them go away, for not protecting them enough, not praying hard enough. His father would try his best to keep her together. Maybe he'd succeed; Moffitt was doubtful, though. More likely, he'd wall himself up even more.

He'd stare at the two graves sitting side-by-side, feeling a swell of impotent anger, but more just quiet confusion, baffled by the hollow uselessness of his own grief. Like Moffitt had been when he opened his mother's telegram.

"Goddamn English pig," one of them growled, after he'd finished beating Moffitt until he was panting in exhaustion. He placed a boot on the side of Moffitt's head, and pressed down just enough so Moffitt knew he could crush his skull without particular effort. "You're almost not worth the trouble. We can't get a good price for you, we might as well just finish you off here."

Moffitt swallowed a mouthful of blood and strained his eyes to look up at the young man with a jagged scar running across his mouth. He drew in a rattling breath and muttered, "I'd prefer if you did, if you're going to continue talking much longer."

The man kicked Moffitt hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He coughed and gasped for breath, but still knew that it was worth it.

He wondered how to Troy would react to his death. He certainly seemed to have recovered soon enough after losing the man who Moffitt replaced. Tully would have to find another conversation partner, someone else with a taste for chess and classical history. It would probably hit Hitch the hardest . He was still young and unbroken and hadn't learned how to avoid forming attachments too deep.

They would be all right. As long as they didn't try to replace him with Peterson. If they let that hapless dolt take his place, he'd have to find some way to become a ghost and haunt the four of them.

Laughing in the face of death. That was a skill he'd developed with the Rat Patrol. They'd found themselves staring down the barrel of impossible odds often enough. An irrational part of Moffitt's brain wished that Troy were there with him, as he waited under the burlap shroud for the one bullet that would end it all. Maybe then, he wouldn't be so frightened.

He couldn't just lay there, helpless. He needed to fight, damn it. He needed to make his body listen, do something useful, instead of just lying there, broken and non-responsive. His shoulder ached from the awkward position it was forced into by his bound hands. He thought that multiple ribs were broken. Taking even the shallowest breath felt like stabbing himself in the side. He wondered if he was already dying, slowly bleeding out internally.

_…moriō, morīs…_

Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he would get to meet Ronnie.

He could hear something pulling up outside, a truck maybe. The time had come when they were either going to kill him or try to sell him on to the highest bidder. One thing he knew was that he wasn't going to let them hand him over to the Germans or Italians. He wouldn't let even more skilled torturers have their chance at dragging information out of him.

He would find something sharp he could slice open a vein with, or anything he could swallow to make himself choke. A rock. A shard of glass or clay. It would be slow and messy, but it would get the job done.

_…morit, morīmus…_

Outside of the house, voices were shouting. He couldn't even fix a language to the pile of angry syllables. A part of his brain kept trying to force it into English, but that had to be nothing more than groundless hope twisting his perception.

He heard footsteps moving around him. "What in the hell is going on?" one of his captors growled.

Maybe the Germans had caught on to the mercenaries' plan, and had come to steal their prisoner. Moffitt's pulse sped up.

He had been a soldier for years. He had faced death before, had felt the cold, hard, sharp certainty of it sticking in his chest, refusing to be ignored. There was nothing he could do to fight it, to make it lesser. He could only acknowledge it, and try to stop the fear from taking over him.

_…morītis, moriunt…_

There was a burst of gunfire, close, just outside, then a door being smashed in. For a half a second, a mad, dangerously hopeful idea entered Moffit's mind. He forced himself to kill it.

If he provoked his new captors just enough maybe he wouldn't have to do the deed himself. He could make a half-hearted attempt at running, hope one of them was trigger happy enough to fill him full of holes before they could pry another syllable out of him.

Another shout of fire, a scream. Moffitt's ears rang. He jammed his eyes shut. Thought about, kneeling on the bathroom floor, bandaging up his brother's scraped knee.

"Moffitt!"

_It's all right, Ronnie. I'm coming._

"Moffitt!"

Ronnie would have called him Jack.

A hand grasped his arm. He flinched away from the pain he knew was coming. Why couldn't they just let him die already? Why couldn't they just leave him with his brother?

"Dammit, Moffitt, wake up!"

The canvas was suddenly pulled back, and even the dim light in the house momentarily blinded him. As his one good eye adjusted, the face above him swam into focus: the strong jaw, creased brow, foggy dark eyes.

"Troy…?" He couldn't make the name clearly. His mouth felt like it was filled with razor blades.

Troy tapped him on the cheek, trying to be gentle, but rough edged with nervous impatience.

"Moffitt, you've gotta stay with me. We're gonna get you out of here, just hold on."

He wished his arms were free, so that he could wrap them around the broad shoulders, to affirm that the man carefully cradling his head was real. All he could do was press his face against Troy's arm.

"Sarge!" Hitch's voice sounded far away, as if it came from the other end of a tunnel.

"I got him," Troy said, voice tired and ragged. "Come on. Stay with me." He slid his arm around Moffitt's back, pulling the other man close, and letting Moffitt's head fall into the crook of his neck. After a moment, Moffitt felt the ropes around his wrists fall away.

He tried to move them, to do something other than lay there helpless and useless. His arms wouldn't obey; all that he could feel was a prickling ache from his shoulders to the sharp nubs of hurt that had replaced his fingers.

"You're gonna be okay, Moffitt," Troy breathed in his ear. "We're goin' home."

Home, a little house in Cambridge with a smiling, gray-eyed little boy or home, a pair of Jeeps in the desert and the three best men he'd ever met? Did it even really matter?

Troy grabbed one of his weakened arms and slung it around his shoulder. "Hold on," he said, and hauled the two of them to their feet. Moffitt's whole body screamed in pain, but he forced himself to stay standing, even as his knees wobbled and he struggled to bring in enough air. As much as he could at his height, he rested his head on Troy's shoulder.

With him - for him - he would hold himself together. Enough to get out of here, enough to get back home. He would endure.

_…perferō, perfers, perfert, perférimus, perfértis, perferunt…_

"Troy…" Moffitt tried again.

_Thank you_, wanted to say_. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was so weak. I'm sorry._

"Stay with me, Moffitt" Troy repeated, like it was a mantra. He tightened his grip on Moffitt's arm and started walking towards the door of the room, around the shattered bodies of his tormenters. "Hitch, get the Jeep!"

"Yes, Sarge!" Hitch ran past them.

They kept walking and Moffitt made himself stay on his feet. He didn't let himself pass out, even as his body begged for release. Troy needed him. For now, he had to stay.

Ronnie would wait for him. Now, he had his duty to fulfill. To his army, but more importantly to his commander. To his friend.

_Perférimus._

_We endure._

He stopped thinking, leaned against Troy, and walked into the harsh blaze of the desert.


End file.
